I woke up to the sounds outside—soft murmurs of birds, the rustling of leaves, and the distant hum of life stirring in the jungle. The sun was just beginning to rise, spilling golden light over the treetops. Still half-dreaming, I took a quick shower and followed the voices, my feet moving instinctively toward the heart of the finca.
Taita had gathered the family. In his hands, he held something small but significant—a leaf, marked with intricate patterns. I approached with curiosity, drawn to the quiet reverence in the air.
“This,” Taita said, raising the leaf, “is a map of life.”
I stared at it, trying to make sense of the patterns. A map of life? I couldn’t see what he meant, but the patterns were undeniably there—etched by nature, imprinted by time. He explained how to read it, how to interpret its meaning, but my Spanish failed me. I caught fragments of his words, enough to understand that wisdom is not always about seeing—it is also about trusting.
The leaf came from the Yagé vine, the sacred plant we were about to harvest. Before cutting it, Taita prayed. His voice wove through the air, and then—something happened. Something I wouldn’t have believed had I not seen it myself.
A group of green parrots flew in, landing on the tree where the Yagé vine had grown for five years, as if summoned. They stayed there—watching, listening—as the prayer continued. I watched in awe, unable to believe what I was seeing.
Then, Taita handed each of us three men a cigar, hand-rolled with tobacco and sacred intent. He had one himself. We didn’t light them to smoke—we lit them to fumigate the Yagé, honoring the spirit of the plant before cutting it. As the smoke curled around us, something extraordinary happened.
The parrots, still perched above us, suddenly took flight. They circled the tree—not once, not twice, but three times—before landing on a nearby branch. It was as if they had been waiting for this moment, as if they too were part of the ritual. A silent blessing, a sign from the jungle itself. I felt the hair on my arms stand up. The jungle was not just a place—it was a teacher, a guide, a force beyond logic and language.
I had come seeking something—I just wasn’t sure what. A cure for restlessness? A break from the noise of my own mind? But as I stood there, watching the parrots circle above us, feeling the weight of the jungle’s presence, I understood: the medicine wasn’t just in the Yagé. It was in the stillness, the waiting, the surrender. Maybe that was what I had been searching for all along. The medicine was in the hands that worked tirelessly, in the river, in the breath of the jungle itself.
William, Taita’s eldest grandson, stepped forward. At fifteen, he climbed like a seasoned hunter, his movements fluid and sure. As he prepared to climb the tree, I saw something in his expression—pride, yes, but also responsibility. He wasn’t just harvesting a vine; he was stepping into his grandfather’s footsteps, carrying a legacy older than any of us. He began climbing the 30-meter-high tree, moving with ease, carrying a rope tied around his waist. Halfway up, he let the rope fall, and Taita tied a machete to it. William pulled it up and began cutting the Yagé vine, the very one Taita had planted five years ago—tended with care, nourished by prayers, songs, and time itself.
As the branches fell, we stood below, waiting—four grown men and the younger grandson, machetes in hand. As soon as the branches touched the ground, we pulled them aside and began cutting them into smaller pieces. The Yagé released its juice, dripping down our hands as we cut.
Nearby, Elisabeth had joined us, watching with quiet curiosity. She had been helping in her own way—gathering leaves, observing the process with reverence. When Taita smiled and held up a fresh cut of vine, its water-like liquid oozing from the core, she stepped closer.
“It’s good for the eyes,” he said. “And for the soul.”
Elisabeth and I looked at each other before scooping the liquid with our hands. We poured it into our eyes, washed our faces, and then drank some. It had a bitter earthiness to it, something ancient and knowing. The sensation was refreshing and grounding, as if the plant itself had already begun its work. I caught Elisabeth’s expression as she wiped the Yagé juice from her eyes—a flicker of something, almost like wonder. “It’s like… the jungle is inside me now,” she murmured. I smiled. I knew exactly what she meant.’
We worked until lunchtime, our hands sticky with the plant’s essence. The meal was simple and joyful, but the work was far from over. The cutting continued into the afternoon. Taita oversaw every step—selecting only the best pieces for the medicine.
At one point, he called me over, handing me a few strong branches. “These,” he said, “are for your walking stick and drumsticks.”
I ran my fingers over the rough bark, feeling the weight of them. It might be a small gesture for him, but it meant a lot to me—the idea that a part of this sacred plant would continue its journey with me, even beyond this place.
The next day, rain fell over the finca. The jungle exhaled in mist and silence, and we couldn’t continue working except for cutting banana leaves to cover the exposed branches of the Yagé. That evening, we gathered for a Floripondio ceremony, a dream-like pause in the rhythm of work.
I had heard stories about this plant before—whispers of its power, its unpredictability. They called it the “Angel’s Trumpet.” A relative of Datura—”Hierba del Diablo” (Devil’s Weed), as Castaneda wrote—it was said to be a portal to other realms, a plant of profound transformation. Castaneda wrote that Don Juan approached it with great caution, warning that it could lead to madness if not handled properly.
Floripondio is used by experienced shamans for dream travel, for encounters with the unseen. Its nature demands deep respect. I might have been uneasy had I been anywhere else. But here, under the guidance of Taita and Maima, there was no fear. We were in safe hands, protected by their wisdom and the songs they carried. When I closed my eyes, something stirred—a whisper beyond hearing, a shadow shifting at the edges of thought. Was I sensing something, or was something sensing me? My breath slowed. A weightless stillness wrapped around me, peeling back the edges of reality. In the darkness, shapes flickered—eyes that were not mine, landscapes I had never seen but somehow remembered. Then, just as quickly, it was gone, leaving only silence. A silence that hummed, as if waiting for me to listen.
The morning after, we returned to the medicine-making. A large tent stood at the edge of the finca, surrounded by chagropanga plants. There, we began peeling the Yagé bark with knives and files. Taita and Maima sang as they worked, their voices weaving through the air like threads of an unseen fabric.
We worked in shifts. Taita’s son, daughters, and son-in-law paused for lunch, but those of us who would drink the medicine later continued working without eating—Elisabeth, Miguel, a kind elder from Medellín, and me. When the time came, Taita gave each of us a full spoon of Yagé medicine.
Something shifted. Time stretched and folded in on itself. I peeled the bark in a half-dream, visions surfacing and dissolving like waves.
“Miguel, sing us something,” Maima said.
Miguel began singing. His voice seemed to stretch across eternity—as if the song would never end. When he finished, Elisabeth followed. Her voice was softer but filled with presence. I wanted to sing too, but the words stayed caught inside me. Maybe if someone had asked, I would have done it. Maybe I wouldn’t have. I don’t know if I could have sung even if I had been given the chance.
As the day unfolded, the Yagé vine was peeled and chopped, piece by piece. The medicine was taking form.
The morning after, I walked into the kitchen, craving coffee. Magali, Taita’s daughter, was already there.
“Hoy, no café,” she said.
I frowned. “¿Solo agua caliente para Elisabeth?”
She shook her head. “¡No puedes! No café, no agua. Nada. Hoy, solo purga.”
I blinked. No coffee, no water—nothing? I didn’t understand at first. My mind was still half-asleep, expecting another long day of work.
But work wasn’t the plan. Taita and Maima had something else in store.
We gathered in the maloca, where we were each given a portion of purgative medicine—an herbal laxative meant to cleanse the body. I had expected it to be unbearably bitter, but it wasn’t as bad as I feared.
What followed, however, was an entirely different experience.
For hours, we purged. Round after round, walking to the toilets and back, releasing, emptying. It was as if the jungle itself was wringing us out, stripping away more than just food—something deeper, something we didn’t even know we had been carrying. Even lunch—a simple soup of chicken, corn, and vegetables—felt impossible. When Magali placed a drumstick in my bowl, my stomach turned. I put it back, opting for only half a portion—just the vegetables. It was a good decision—I barely made it through before I had to rush back to the toilets.
By nightfall, the jungle had swallowed us whole.
That night, under the glow of the jungle, we gathered for a Yagé ceremony. Taita handed me a massive portion—so much that I half-suspected it was meant for a bear. The medicine seeped into my body, moving through me like a slow tide, guided by Taita and Maima’s prayers and Icaros. Then, the visions came. Colors pulsed behind my closed eyelids, shifting like the jungle itself—fluid, unknowable. I saw faces I couldn’t recognize but somehow understood, moments folding into one another like the rings inside the Yagé vine. Thoughts emerged. But this time, they were not of past wounds or fears. They were of something deeper, something older than memory.
This time, I saw how privileged I was—to be here, in the Colombian Amazon, with two of its most revered healers. Gratitude swelled within me, deep and unshakable. But beyond gratitude, I had changed. The jungle had shown me that wisdom isn’t always about understanding—it’s about surrender, trust, and being present in the mystery of things. And perhaps, that was the real medicine. The ceremony stretched into dawn, the medicine still moving through us even in sleep.
By the time we woke up, the others had finished cooking the medicine. While we rested, Taita and Maima had continued working, their dedication seeming endless. Their devotion was something rare, something most of us had forgotten—an unwavering commitment to patience, service, and the quiet work of tending to life itself.
That night, we gathered once more for a Floripondio ceremony. As the night deepened, the jungle seemed to shift, the air thick with mystery. I closed my eyes, letting the medicine speak in its own way. It was not the kind of plant one consumed lightly, nor one that simply revealed things—it demanded surrender, trust, and stillness.
On our last day, we had a day ceremony with Yagé. It ended with burning incense, Agua Florida, and then ortiga—a stinging nettle ritual for the physical cleansing and purification. The Ortiga is used to stimulate blood circulation, release toxins, and remove “bad energies”. Taita has placed it on the head of Elisabeth first. Then he brushed the plant on her skin. She was calm, didn’t react. I knew that stinging nettle session was going to happen, but I thought that it was a joke since she didn’t react at all. I felt a very painful sting when Taita placed it on my head. I felt a sharp, fiery sting. I flinched. I had to make “Ouch!” when feeling the pain.
“¡Drama turco!” Maima laughed.
I caught Miguel’s expression—wide-eyed, full of fear. That’s when an idea struck me.
I exaggerated my reaction just a little, wincing and letting out sharp “ouches.” Miguel’s face turned the color of old parchment. “No way, ” Miguel muttered, inching back like a man facing a firing squad. He eyed the nettle as if it had personally threatened his family. Taita grinned. “Come now, amigo. No fear. ” But Miguel stood rooted, stiff as a statue of Saint Somebody. Then—whap. The first sting landed. His body jerked like he’d touched a live wire. And in sheer, glorious desperation, he turned his agony into art.
“Aaaaaaaaah!” he wailed, a perfect opera like vibrato, as if auditioning for the spirits of the jungle. We lost it. Laughter roared through the maloca. Even the parrots outside squawked in approval.
By the end, we were covered in red welts, but the pain faded quickly, replaced by a deep, tingling warmth. It was oddly invigorating, leaving us feeling alive and energized.
As we prepared to leave, Taita and Maima showed us the medicine—25 liters, the essence of five years, four full days of labor, and the prayers of many hands. But what we the experience we had was more than a physical substance. It was the weight of time, of lineage, of something greater than ourselves. The real work, I realized, had never been about cutting vines or preparing medicine. It was about surrender and respect to mother-jungle, to time, to something far greater than myself. It was about tending to the unseen, honoring the spirit of those who had come before, and carrying their whispers forward. And in that moment, I understood: what I had been searching for had never been ahead of me—it had been working within me all along, long before I arrived.
The motorcycles were waiting to take us to the boat port, where we would cross the river.
I turned to Miguel after arriving at the port. “By the way,” I admitted, “I exaggerated the pain of the ortiga just to scare you.”
He stared at me, then burst into laughter. “You succeeded!”
As the boat carried us across the river, I felt something settle inside me—something that would stay long after I had left this place. This wasn’t just a journey; it was a thread in a much older tapestry, something ancient and alive, still flowing like the jungle itself. As I turned back one last time, the dense green stretched endlessly behind us. I wasn’t just leaving with memories of the jungle—I had left a part of myself behind, woven into its roots, its rivers, its breath.
The hum of the motor blended with the calls of distant birds. The river shimmered, carrying us forward, while the jungle softened into a blur of green and mist. I exhaled. The jungle had stayed behind—but the medicine was still in me.
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